Haven't Got Time for the Pain
by Hayseed Socrates
Summary: Yet another suspect threatens Patrick Jane, leading to a revelatory evening in his life. This story is a shortish one shot set a year after Blue Bird, written in first person/present tense. I hope you enjoy it.


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Don't own 'em. No money gained. Thanks, Bruno.

_AN: My apologies to those of you waiting for the next chapter of "You Don't Know Me." I will get cracking on that tonight. But I was on a long plane ride the other day, and when I am on a long plane ride, one shots happen. This is about where I hope Jane's Season 7 arc leads - to freedom. I hope you enjoy it, and thanks for reading. The story title is from an old Carly Simon song_.

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**Haven't Got Time for the Pain**

As I get onto the elevator with Agent Bruner, it hits me how bone tired I am. My eyes feel like sandpaper and it's a little hard to focus on the floor numbers. I punch "one" and lean against the elevator wall with a sigh. It's nearly midnight.

It's rare that Abbott asks me to do stuff like this, but another team was interrogating several suspects in a particularly convoluted case and they asked specifically for my help. Not something I seek out, this working with other teams, but I do have to oblige Abbott. There's no doubt in my mind that, although my boss likes me on some level, I'm still a con man and a criminal to him – a tool to be used for the greater good. If I don't cooperate, he'll see that I am indicted.

That said, now that Teresa and I are together, this 'five years of slavery' thing is a lot easier to stomach. It's been over a year since our crazy plane fiasco in Florida, and wonder of wonders, things are going well between us. Very well. We've been working a lot of hours lately though, and she's been clamoring for a get away. I'm all for that, but the cases just keep coming.

"Whew. Glad that's done," Bruner comments, as we exit the FBI building. Teresa got off at six, so he's offered to give me a ride home. Our place is right on his way. Home. We have a home now. Realizing that truth gives me a warm fuzzy feeling.

I nod. "I'm beat."

"You know, Jane, I gotta admit, I was skeptical about you when the boss pulled you in on this, but I owe you an apology. You're good," he says, as we reach the first floor.

I bite back the smartass remark I want to make. He means well. "I try."

"That first guy – Geller? He really was a piece of work. I couldn't believe he threatened you, right there in the room," he says as he unlocks his tan Ford Taurus.

"He's a sociopath and a killer no doubt, but he didn't do this one. The people I interrogate rarely like me. No one likes to have themselves exposed, even if they aren't guilty of the crime in question."

"Yeah, I get it. Still, I got kids. When somebody threatens me or my family, it creeps me out." In an instant, Bruner realizes what he's said to me, and starts to fidget and stutter. "I mean…I didn't…"

"It's okay," I say, absolving him of any offense with a shrug. I've been threatened hundreds of times, after all. It's only started bothering me in the last year, and I take that as a good sign. The positive result from his faux pas is that he is silent for the remainder of our ride, and I can close my scratchy eyes. I'm nearly asleep when his voice jolts me awake.

"Three eighteen Chestnut Avenue?"

I blink my eyes open and shake my head from side to side in attempt to make myself more alert. "Yup. Right here, on the right." I point to a modest clapboard house with blue shutters. Our home, I think, and that warm feeling wells up inside me yet again.

Bruner stops the car out front.

"Thanks," I say, and I slam the car door, giving him a little wave. The porch light is on but the windows are dark, and that's no surprise. Teresa is not exactly a night owl. When we're working, she's usually ready for bed by ten. Not that we actually go to sleep then. I smile, thinking about why not.

My key turns easily in the lock, and I enter the house, savoring the familiarity of my routine. Flip off the porch light. Drop my keys in the basket by the door. Plug my phone to charge on the foyer table. Teresa recharges her phone on her nightstand, so she doesn't miss any calls from work. I am, shall we say, less conscientious.

I kick off my shoes and head for the restroom in the bath off of the kitchen. She's a light sleeper, and if I turn on the light in the master bath, I will wake her. I splash my face with water, hoping some of the stench of cruelty I've spent the evening examining will disappear down the drain. After I finish brushing my teeth, I pad down the hardwood floor of the hall, looking at my sock feet. I have someone who buys me socks. A smug smile lights up my face. I can't explain why that gives me such joy, but it does.

A few feet from the bedroom, I look up, and what I see halts me, making my blood run cold. The door is closed. Teresa never closes the bedroom door. The floor drops out from under me and my legs go weak when I see a note taped to the door. Something is squeezing my chest so tightly I can't breathe and my mind shuts down.

"No!" an involuntary shriek escapes from my lips. I'm too far away to read the words, but I can't move. My body sags against the wall and the world spins. I cannot. I won't. If I take one step closer, I will explode.

Suddenly the door opens and there she is. Hair all tousled, sleepy eyes, clad in her silky green gown. Alive. Determination cuts through her drowsiness. "Look," she starts, "I know you don't want to go, but you _have_ to go, Jane. I promised Fischer I'd make…"

She frowns and looks closer at me. "What's wrong?" she asks, alarm creeping into her voice.

"Teresa," I manage to squeak.

She peers at me and then tilts her head slightly to the side. "What is it?" she asks again, now certain something is amiss.

"The note…" I choke out.

"I wanted to make sure you saw it," she insists. "You're supposed to be at Dr. Wells' office at eight thirty in the morning."

"The door. Was closed," I say, faltering, still incapacitated by the residual of my terror.

And then it dawns on her what she's done. "Oh God! I didn't think," she says, and she wraps her arms around me. She repeats "I'm sorry. I'm sorry," over and over as she kisses my face and neck.

"Can I sit down?" I ask, and she leads me to the foot of the bed.

Her words tumble out quickly as she sits beside me. "I forgot to remind you about the FBI physical, and I knew you didn't want to go, especially since Abbott gave you tomorrow morning off. You hadn't responded to the texts I sent about it. I figured if I left a note somewhere else you'd try to say you didn't see it so…" She's running a hand through my hair, petting me like a dog. "I didn't think," she reiterates. "I'm so sorry."

"I left a note on the couch, too, just in case you didn't make it to bed," she explains. I have been known to fall asleep on the couch if I get in late. She holds me until I am no longer shaking.

"I'm okay," I lie. "A guy threatened me – us - tonight. Bad timing."

"Let's get you undressed," she says, and she helps me with my socks and my shirt and my pants. And my underwear. And then we're in bed and she's soft and warm and alive, impaling herself on me. I forget my fear. I forget everything except how good this feels. Exhausted, I fall asleep in her arms.

We awake at the same time, in the dark. I start to lift myself so I can see her nightstand clock but she places a hand on my chest, keeping me still.

"Shh," she says with urgency. "Don't get up. There's somebody in the house."

I listen carefully and hear muffled footsteps. My heart rate accelerates and I nod.

"Make pillow people," she whispers, and I know right away where she's going with this. We silently arrange the covers so it looks like two sleeping forms are in the bed. She slips her pistol out of its holster, slinks over to the wall and stands flat against it, right inside the open door. Then she motions for me to come, and I slip silently to stand naked beside her, away from the door. I have to concentrate to keep my breathing normal.

The steps approach and I see the muzzle of a gun poke into the room, followed by a dark human form, aiming the gun at our bed.

"Drop it," she shouts, shoving her Glock toward the back of his head, but he whirls and lunges toward her instead. I recognize his face right before she blows it off, and his body drops to the floor with a lifeless thud.

"Shit," she says, wiping his blood off of her cheek.

The suspect who threatened me earlier in the evening is lying on our bedroom floor without a face.

"Call this in," she orders, and I do.

Now the house is crawling with FBI. I sit quietly at the kitchen table, drinking my tea, as a flurry of activity buzzes around me. Every once in a while, Teresa comes over and touches me – leans against me, puts a hand on my arm. Squeezes my shoulder. Nothing big, but it helps. I am pulling myself together.

It's light outside now, seven thirty or so, I'd guess, and I stare out of the bay window into our backyard. A cardinal flutters easily away from the neighbor's tabby cat, and flits up to our birdfeeder to feast on sunflower seeds. He chirps happily, his brush with the cat forgotten in an instant. _Of course._ I smile at this revelation.

My attention turns back inside, and I see Teresa standing near the refrigerator, beside Abbott. She's laughing as she talks to Cho and Fischer, with her weight shifted onto one foot and her hand on her hip. She is vibrant and alive. Unharmed.

A calmness settles over me. Like that bird, we will never be completely safe from the cats of the world. We will need to escape danger when it presents itself, but when it is gone, we must not dwell on it. I see that now. It occurs to me that I have just faced my greatest fear and come out the other side. Teresa is alive, and I shouldn't waste precious time wallowing in fear.

Gradually the ancillary people filter out until only our team remains. I look up at Fischer. I am going to make the best of this.

"I'm not going for my physical this morning," I announce. "If that's okay," I add in false deference.

Fischer actually smiles. She knows she's beaten this time, so she looks at Abbott and asks, "Can I put him through on waiver?"

Her boss shrugs. "Sure." It's absurd to worry about my physical fitness causing problems when I've nearly been assassinated, and they all know it.

"I'm just glad we woke up," I say, strategically timing my comment.

I note a shadow of guilt fall over Abbott's face. He's remembering he's the one who asked me to interrogate our would-be killer. This is good.

"Lisbon, why don't you and Jane take a few days off?" he booms. "Get out of town? Forget about all of this."

Teresa's head comes up in surprise, and then she stares at me in pure wonderment. I stifle a smile. She knows what I have just done. The badass woman I love and I are both alive. Why shouldn't we take this opportunity to enjoy that fact?

"Take until Monday," Abbott proclaims, waving a hand generously.

"Tuesday would be better," I point out. If he feels guilty because he asked me to do something that put our lives in danger, I am certainly not going to talk him out of it.

He glares at me for a second, then laughs and nods affirmatively. "Okay, Tuesday." He's knows he's been had but he doesn't care. He also knows how hard we've been working, making him look good.

I grin at Teresa and the corners of her mouth turn up despite her efforts to keep a straight face.

A few hours later, we are boarding a plane to Belize. As the wheels lift off the runway, I turn to her. "I trust you will see to it that I get my physical today."

She smacks my arm, but her eyes tell me it will be a thorough one. "You'll live," she smirks.

_Yes,_ I think, _I will. We will. Every moment._


End file.
